Legend of the White Devil
by Frank Hunter
Summary: A glimpse into Raiden's childhood. Reviews are greatly appreciated.
1. Incision

**Legend of the White Devil**  
**Chapter 1: Incision**  
By, Frank Hunter

The boy had an AK in his hand and blood in his hair when Farley found him. The red liquid contrasted uniquely on his white-blonde hair and his pale skin, as it dripped down his face. The blood was not the boy's own though, but appeared to belong to the bullet-riddled corpse sprawled across the top of his foxhole.

"No way…" Charlie muttered from behind. "Kid, did you do that?"

The kid was crying and did not answer. His AK was resting in his lap as he leaned against the cold dirt wall of the foxhole. Farley guessed that he might be nine years old. Ten, at most.

"Man, Africa's fucked up," Bill said from Farley's left, lighting up a cigarette.

"It's war that's fucked up, Bill," Farley replied.

The boy made a noise through his sobs and the squad fell silent. Farley leaned down next to him and put his hand on the kid's. His uniform was that of the enemy's, there was no doubt about that, but the kid made no motion to pick up his rifle. No hostile action at all.

"Talk to us, boy," Farley pressed.

"I…I…" The boy, following a round of tears and sobs, finally managed a sentence. "I want to go home."

"Where's home?" Farley asked. "Are you from Zambezia?"

The child shook his head and pointed off into the distance. The squad traced his finger to the west.

Charlie wiped some sweat off his forehead, while Farley pulled a handkerchief, trying to at least clear the blood from the boy's face. "Well shit, man," he said. "It was that village we passed last night. A hundred bucks says the kid's from there."

"Could you pick out your home on a map, son?" Farley asked. The boy slowly nodded at him. Farley felt a bit of elation "If we get him to forward command he could show us where he lives. We could send him back west when the supply caravan comes in tomorrow morning."

"Damn it, Farley," Ramirez perked up. "He's a fuckin' kid, and he's an enemy. _Look_ at his gear, look at it, man! Leave him. And don't _just_ leave him. Tie him up so he can't cause us trouble later! Why do you need a project wherever you fuckin' go?"

"It's not fair what they do to these kids, Ramirez. _You_ might have signed up for this but look at _him_! He's shaking. He doesn't _wanna_ be here! He's no soldier!" Farley took the boys arm while Bill rummaged through the gear belonging to the poor sap on top of the foxhole. He found some ammo.

"This humanitarian shit's gonna get you in trouble some day, Farley," Ramirez warned. Farley ignored him and helped the boy up. "What's your name, son?" he asked.

"J…J…Jack. It's Jack."

"Alright Jack, we're gonna take you back to base. Can you walk?"

"Uh huh…"

"Do you mind giving us that AK?"

Jack handed the rifle to Farley, who passed it off to Charlie. He looked down and a fresh stream of tears started again. "I…I just want to go home."

"I know," Farley replied once more. "But we need you to walk just a little bit. It's two miles back to base. Can you do that?" Jack nodded, but seeing the state of the kid Farley wasn't sure. "Alright," he said, none the less. "Let's move out then."

"This is fuckin' bullshit, man," Ramirez commented, and was once again ignored.

The five of them began the hike out of the ruins and through the desert, back to base. Farley couldn't get over the sight of the kid. He was slouched in a fit of depression, but with hair and skin so pure Farley wasn't sure Jack was made to be a soldier at all. Actually he thought that, under different circumstances, he might have mistaken Jack for an angel. The blood, though, that was just disturbing. Like a slash right through the innocence of the child.

As the team crossed, the sun began to set and a fire could be seen out in the distance. Jack seemed excited by the sight of it and Farley couldn't help but smile. God knows when the kid had last seen any bit of civilization. But, the unit would help him tonight. Farley had touched this boy's soul and probably saved his life. He couldn't help but feel good.

It was a short climb up a rocky plateau to actually get into base. The plateau provided an excellent vantage point but, for a while, concerned Farley that it would hinder Jack beyond his ability to finish the trip. Jack, however, proved much stronger than he looked, and was able to keep up with the squad all the way to camp. He was quite capable.

"We'll catch you later, Farley," Charlie said as he and the rest of the squad headed toward the campfire. It was almost dark now. "After you're done babysittin." This provoked a couple of snickers from the guys.

"I'm just gonna take him to see Commander Sade. He'll decide what to do."

They parted ways, and Farley beckoned Jack to come with him. They found Commander Sade in his tent, poring over a table of maps and battle plans for tomorrow's exercises. Looking up, he saw Farley and couldn't suppress a smirk. "Taking in strays again, private?"

"Sorry sir, but he needed our help. He knows where he comes from and he just wants to go home. His name's Jack."

"Farley you need to stop this shit. This is the last time and I mean the _last time_ I'm gonna humor these little fantasies of yours about saving the world, one child at a time. Is that clear?"

"Crystal, sir."

"The boy can stay with the P.O.W.s tonight. We'll figure out what to do with him tomorrow."

"Actually, sir, he claims to live out to the west and says he can find his home on a map. If you'll let him have a look I'm sure we can send him out with the supply caravan first thing in the morning."

The commander raised an eyebrow and spoke to Jack for the first time. "Is that so?"

Jack nodded.

"Well then," said Sade, pulling out a map of the region and placing it down on the table. He sat Jack down across from where he stood. "Which village is yours?"

Jack glanced at the map for a moment before looking up pleadingly into Sade's eyes. "W…water. Can I please have some water?" Farley, alarmed that he hadn't considered the boy's basic needs, jumped to attention.

"I'll run and get it," he offered. Sade nodded and Farley sprinted from the tent. Jack returned his attention to the map.

"It's farther than this…" he said sadly.

"Hm," Sade replied and turned to pick up the map of Sofala. Too deep into Sofala would be past the supply post and Sade was unsure they'd be able to help the boy if that were the case.

He turned around to hand Jack the new map, but it was already too late.

Having pulled the hidden bowie knife from his boot, Jack was up and over the table. Sade dropped the map as the knife was lodged into the side of his throat. Having sliced the commander's vocal chords, Sade couldn't yell out. Having punctured his trachea, he couldn't breathe. The blood sprayed from the wound, covering the boy's pure face until the child that had been there before was no more than a vague memory. The creature that remained looked like something of pure evil.

Sade was dead in a matter of moments and Jack peeked out the front of the tent. His kill had gone unnoticed, but that trusting fool Farley would be back any minute. Looking out the back, Jack saw that the commander's tent was at the edge of the plateau. He made a run for it.

Sprinting out the back of the tent he jumped down the side of the plateau and nimbly climbed the rocks back into the desert below. Having scouted the area around the base prior to this operation, Jack easily felt his way through the dark into a small crevasse about half a mile southeast. His attention was diverted for only a moment when a loud echo shot across the desert. Jack could just make out the words.

"_FARLEY YOU STUPID FUCK!_"

Jack climbed into a small cave. There was a network of little tunnels around that crevasse where he would be able to hide from the soldiers for hours if they were so inclined to follow him down there. Not that they'd even be able to fit into the tiny openings.

Jack pulled his radio and tuned it to the correct frequency. The voice that spoke into it was ice cold and completely devoid of emotion.

"Carlo."

The radio buzzed and whistled for a second before the response came through. Carlo's voice was only slightly deeper than Jack's own.

"That you, White Devil?"

"It's me. You can tell Solidus 'mission accomplished.' The enemy commander has been neutralized."

"That's good news. He'll be happy. You coming back tonight?"

"In a few hours, under cover of darkness."

The radio hissed static again for a second, before Carlo's voice returned. "…wants to begin the attack first thing tomorrow morning."

"Actually, Carlo?"

"Yes, White Devil?"

"I have some information about a supply caravan Solidus might find interesting. A change of plan might be in order…"


	2. Laceration

**Legend of the White Devil  
Chapter 2: Laceration**  
By, Frank Hunter

Granted Kyle Watson hadn't been in Mozambique very long, but it didn't take long for a man to realize how fucked up this situation really was. Civil war, death everywhere. _And the child soldiers_, he thought. _They look at you with those innocent eyes, but you know there's something else underneath._

Watson counted his blessings for the easy assignment he was placed on that morning. He was driving the third of three pickup trucks delivering supplies to an outpost in western Zambezia. His partner, Hicks, didn't feel quite the same way.

"Fuckin' bullshit job they got us workin,' man, I'm tellin' ya," Hicks said from the passenger seat. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of red sunglasses and he was snapping his chewing gum loudly.

"We don't all take as much pleasure in killing children as you do," Watson responded curtly. Hicks was known for his ruthless methods, as well as being constantly at odds with the rules of war. Watson remembered the last P.O.W. they'd caught.

He was a fourteen year old kid, skin black as ash. They'd had him cuffed up and kneeling in the sand, under the watch of three trained soldiers. Three men, for one boy.

As the body count for that day's engagement continued to rise, interrogation tactics against the boy became more and more extreme. He was mercilessly silent though. Either he really didn't know anything, or he was never going to speak. Finally, Hicks had enough of "playing with the kiddies" as he put it, and threw the boy to the floor. His hands being cuffed behind his back, he had trouble getting up while Hicks balanced his combat boot at the base of his skull. It took very little effort on the soldier's part to crush his spinal column.

This is the man who now laughed in the passenger seat.

"Gimme an M-16 over a pickup truck any day, Watson."

"I don't see how you can take so much pleasure in this. This whole war is just sickening."

"Nah it's not, you just don't know how to have fun."

"They're kids, Hicks!"

"So?" Hicks asked from under his sunglasses. He looked more serious than Watson ever remembered seeing him. "They'll kill us just as soon as we'll kill them. In the end it's really just survival. Don't matter who _they_ are. We're all just soldiers."

Watson reflected on this for a moment while the sun rose in over a crag in the distance. _But they don't even realize what they're doing. What they're fighting for…_

"Just can't wait to get back to base. Get me a real assignment," Hicks said to himself and the trucks continued across the desert.

But it doesn't really matter who _they _are.

After all, Watson, Hicks, and the rest of the supply caravan would never notice the claymore mines hidden about a hundred yards further up the road. Plus, with the sun coming up just over that crag, they were very unlikely to see the shape of the small blonde boy lying across the top with his PSG-1. The setup was wonderful.

The peace and monotony of the assignment was broken in an instant when the first truck in line hit the claymore trap and was violently flipped onto its back, spurting flames. Watching this through his scope, Jack smiled. _Like flies into a web_.

The entire plan had come to fruition in a matter of hours. After Jack's report back to base, Solidus had realized very quickly the opportunity this supply caravan provided him. The initial plan had been to assassinate the commander at the enemy's forward base, and then pressure them enough with firepower to withdraw from the area. But, when the White Devil called in the approximate time and trajectory of this supply caravan, everything changed. If he played his cards right, Solidus would be able to destroy the entire enemy encampment, a much more permanent and agreeable fix to their problem, and win a major victory in this area.

Instead of calling the White Devil back to base, Solidus had him regroup with a squad from the "Small Boy Unit" ten clicks west of the enemy's outpost. They proceeded from there onto the only main road heading toward the enemy base, and prepared their trap.

And now it was working perfectly. The second truck skidded to a halt just behind its unfortunate comrade.

Jack, eyes never leaving his scope, spoke into his radio. "Carlo?"

"Yeah?"

"You ready?"

"Yeah. On your mark."

Jack knew that on another ledge just off to the other side of the road, Carlo would be in a very similar position aiming a very similar weapon at the driver of truck number two. Jack lined up his sights with the man in the passenger seat. Just before the truck came to a complete stop…

"Fire," came the cold, emotionless command.

Two bullets roared down toward the road, finding their place in the heads of both men in the second truck. Both were dead before they could get out of their seats. Truck number three began skidding to a halt behind it and Jack readjusted his sights to the man in that passenger seat with the red sunglasses. He thought for a moment, then aimed a little higher. He decided he didn't want to damage those glasses.

Across the way, Carlo would be readjusting his aim to target the third driver. The brilliance of this plan is that these two could not have seen what happened to their friends in truck number two. They still didn't know what was coming. Just rinse and repeat.

"Ready for shot number two?" Jack whispered into his radio.

"On your mark."

"Fire."

The bullets again found their marks, and the two men in the third truck were motionless as well. Jack focused on his scope a little longer, and then smiled. His bullet had hit about an inch above the bridge of those glasses.

With all six enemies down, the rest of the squad rushed out from cover to put out the fire in truck number one before it engulfed the gas tank. Jack worked his way down the cliff and met with his unit just as they moved their own trucks back onto the road.

The next step was to pull all provisions from the two remaining trucks and load them on the boys' own vehicles. They would take these supplies for themselves.

Crates were opened and the boys worked quickly to take as much as they could and fill their own two pickup trucks. At the same time, they filled the newly empty crates with C4 plastic explosives, rigged to blow on an ignition trigger. They left one empty crate on each truck.

Jack walked over to the man who had sat in the passenger seat of truck number three. He pulled the sunglasses off the man's eyes, which were now molded, in death, in an amusingly fearful way. _Cowards_, Jack thought, as he tried on his new acquisition. They fit surprisingly well.

Jack dumped the corpse out of the truck, as several other boys followed suit with the three others in trucks two and three. The older boys who were designated to drive the trucks took their clothes. They wouldn't want to arouse suspicion _too_ soon.

"Nice eyes, White Devil," Carlo said to him, stepping around the truck and propping his PSG-1 on his shoulder. The two walked back to their own supply vehicle to trade the sniper rifles out for AKs. Once the tradeoff was complete and the provisions were loaded, two boys started their own trucks and began the return trip to base. Jack, Carlo and six others, including the drivers, were left to complete the final phase of this mission.

"See you on the other side," Jack said and he and Carlo gave each other a sort of salute, before heading off to the backs of their own respective trucks. Jack and two other boys climbed into the empty crate in number three. He knew Carlo was doing the same in number two.

Closing the crate up, Jack looked at his two comrades. "Who's got the trigger?" he asked. The boy on his right reached into his pocket and held up a small, cylindrical device with a red button. Jack smiled. "Don't lose that." The boy smiled back.

Underneath he could feel the truck starting up as the drivers got ready to go. Not only would this encampment not know what hit them, but this would be the second time in one day Jack had gotten the best of them.

For a moment, his mind turned to the soldier who had tried to help him earlier that night, Farley. The kindness in the man's eyes didn't belong on a battlefield. Jack considered for a moment feeling bad about taking advantage of such a man's caring, but he decided against it.

_This is war_, he thought to himself. _And it really doesn't matter who they are. They are the enemy, and we are stronger than them. They must be destroyed._

The new and improved supply caravan got back underway. The sun shone through a cloudless sky and the way ahead was clear. They would be upon the enemy soon, and Jack was ready to finish this fight.


	3. Inflammation

**Legend of the White Devil  
Chapter 3: Inflammation  
**By, Frank Hunter

Farley dropped a scrap of some canned nonsense back into the tin of his combat ration as Ramirez came up behind him and jerked him out of his chair by the collar of his jacket. It occurred to him to twist the wrist of the stockier man until he got a satisfying squeal, but the inclination passed. Farley never was one for severe confrontation, and he'd had to endure about as much as he could handle over the last nine hours. Following the death of Commander Sade at the hands of the boy Farley himself had tried to save, the fair-skinned Jack, well he didn't have very many popularity points around this outpost anymore. Ramirez thought even less of him than the others, if that was possible.

Ramirez's knuckles whitened around the jacket below Farley's chin. "You're in my seat, shithead."

"Don't call me that," Farley warned him without conviction.

Ramirez jeered. "It's right, ain't it? There can't be nothin' else in that head excepting for shit, not with the bullshit you pulled. Not with the Commander dead."

"I didn't fuckin' know Ramirez, god dammit. Lieutenant Carson's gonna get boosted up, you heard high command. Supplies are rollin' in right now, and we'll be on our feet by 0800."

Yeah," Ramirez said. "Everythin' moves on and we can forget your little fuckup, right Farley? Just go back to how things were before?"

Farley lifted his eyes almost to the bridge of the other man's nose. He couldn't quite make it. "I don't know what you want from me, man. I didn't mean for this to happen."

Ramirez nodded. "I know man, accidents happen all the time. Accidents just like last night. Accidents, maybe, like the one that'll happen on our next patrol."

That one did get Farley's eyes up all the way. He met Ramirez, and saw nothing there but cold dislike. Nothing hospitable. Nothing companionable.

"What are you talking about?" Farley asked, a slight crack making its way into his voice.

Ramirez leaned closer, the stink of sweat and some canned food on him. "Bullets fly both ways," he said, in almost a whisper, something maybe still loud enough to be overheard. "Better watch your back."

Farley caught sight of the rest of the table in his peripherals. All of them, his unit, all of them were staring at him, and they broke line-of-sight when he noticed. Realization dawned on him, and Ramirez's eyebrows went up. He pushed Farley back a step and he stumbled, but stayed afoot.

"Now get the fuck out of my seat," Ramirez said, and lowered himself without another word down to the table. He and the rest of the unit resumed their early-morning breakfast without another word. It was all Farley could do to stare at the side of the other man's head. Was the threat genuine? Was the screw-up that big? Would Ramirez do it? Were the rest of them in on it?

He swore under his breath and strode away from the table, not quite able to stop himself from taking glances back every few steps. He made his way along the one road through the camp, down toward where the plateau began to slope downward. He stepped behind the mess tent, out of sight of the table, and exhaled for what felt like the first time in an hour. _Why the hell did I have to bring that kid up here?_ Farley must have asked this of himself a thousand times since the accident. _We knew he was the enemy. We knew he'd already killed. God the _corpse…

He tried not to think of how he'd found Jack, out there in the foxhole. He tried not to think of what the fate was of that other man in the foxhole. No different than that of the commander, he was sure.

But man, accidents happen. The other guys would just have to come to terms with it. It was a goddamn accident, and they wouldn't really kill him for it. Maybe if they found the little bastard who had done it, if they found Jack and Farley took him out, maybe all would be forgiven. Yeah, he thought he could do with that. A little payback would be golden, and it could make things right if he got it in time.

A flag of dust became visible on the horizon, fantailing behind something that was moving toward them quick. Farley caught sight and squinted. That was the caravan: one truck clearly visible and the other two looked like they were behind. Fresh supplies, and maybe some orders or a new superior in from command. Yeah, things would turn around now.

Farley decided to sit right there and wait. The trucks pulled closer and closer into sight, indeed three of them. He knew it would only be right to help unload them, but man, he didn't feel like it. Not with the morning he was having. With the commander gone, he doubted anyone would want to force him. No one seemed to give a rat's ass about him just then anyway.

As the trucks' engines became audible, it became very apparent that one was riding a decent ways ahead of the others. That first truck pulled into the camp a good minute ahead, and the breakfast table rose to greet the delivery. The doors opened and two men stepped out of the truck's cabin. The men were skinny, their baggy clothes made them look as though the desert had malnourished them. Farley watched from where he sat and shook his head. Some of these guys took tours that were years long. That kind of thing wasn't good for you.

Lieutenant Carson saluted the driver, who made a perfect salute back and then spoke in a heavily accented English "Supplies are in back. Excuse us, if we take water?"

The lieutenant nodded and pointed them toward the mess tent, while a couple of soldiers opened the back gate of the truck and began hauling out the first crate. The next two trucks pulled in and came to a halt five yard to either side of the first. The drivers did not get out.

"Hey," one of the soldiers called to the drivers, while more began preparing to unload the additional trucks. "Think you can get out and help?"

No one, unfortunately, had seen the microphone rigged up beneath the collar of the first truck's driver. No one was close enough to hear the man speak into it once he was clear inside the mess tent. No one heard except for Farley, what he said, and even he could have done nothing about it even had he understood.

The driver said one word. "Pull."

A picosecond after the word was uttered, it was picked up in the earpiece hidden in a crate in truck number two. The inside of that crate filled with a soft beeping sound as two boys pulled the triggers they'd been holding since they climbed on board. That beep escalated quickly.

The C4 explosives were tucked into every crate within truck number one. Triggers pulled, they exploded, carrying every man who had been unloading the so-called "supplies" through a fiery blaze of hell into that everlasting peace. The explosion threw everyone, dead or alive, to the ground, some in multiple pieces. The blood rained down like a shower, covering the windows of the other two trucks to near opacity. Only now, did those cabin doors fly open, and the drivers, skinny as well because they were after all only boys, flew out with AKs already at the ready. Gunfire erupted and the surviving men on both sides of the blown truck were put out of their intense misery.

The crates in the back of trucks 2 and 3 burst open and the rest of the Small Boy Unit flowed from the rear gates, cleaning up the stragglers. The soldiers were caught by total surprise, and now they paid in full. AKs lanced their bullets into target after target and the men went down before they could recover. "Check the tents," came a familiar voice and two teams of boys skirted from the trucks to move through the tents. An occasional foray of gunfire, and that was done too.

Farley was stunned by the instantaneous explosion. He could do nothing but stare, his brain in a state of complete disrepair through the events of the last nine hours. He had nothing on him but his sidearm, his rifle tucked safely into his bunk on the other side of camp. He watched the massacre from where he stood, unable to do anything about it. At some point he fell backward onto his ass, and just tried to claw away, and put a little distance between himself and the incredible scene. As he made his last effort at escape, a figure stepped around the side of the burning truck. This figure was one he recognized. The small stature, the clean blonde hair, the AK he held, same as when Farley had first seen him, only now it was aimed upward and held with authority. The boy turned his head, and his eyes were a sea of red, reflecting the flames back like the very essence of Naar.

Farley remembered what he had thought that first time, and shook his head to ward it away. _That's no angel,_ he thought. _That's a devil, and it's come for me._

It was the last thought that ever crossed his mind. As it dawned on him, a shadow loomed over from behind him, and before Farley could turn around to see who it might be, the pressure of a bullet impacted the base of his skull. Everything went black, and Farley thought no more.

…

From where he stood at the back of the burning truck, Jack surveyed the scene around him. The battle had been a huge success, with only two casualties to the Small Boy Unit, and a total victory on their end. The unit was almost done cleaning up, and now they had an additional camp of supplies to themselves, and a forward enemy position out of the way. A promising night had very quickly become a perfect day.

Carlo trotted up beside him, and Jack regarded him from beneath his sunglasses. "We think we've got most of the stragglers, but the explosion did most of the work for us. You really outdid yourself today, White Devil."

Jack waved a hand. "This was cake. These Americans are soft. They keep underestimating us."

Carlo nodded. "Solidus will be very pleased."

"I'm sure he will," Jack agreed. "Did you find their comm tent? I think it's time to put in our report."

Carlo pointed off. "It's there, behind their mess area."

Jack stopped for a moment. "Mess? There are rations?"

Carlo nodded again. "Three crates. It's why they weren't on the trucks."

Jack smiled. "We'll eat today then. Get a ration to every member of the unit. They've earned it. If they eat quickly, we can finish and get back and Solidus never has to know."

He could tell Carlo was salivating at the prospect "Hurry though," he added. "I want you all halfway done before I finish my report. No joke."

"Right," Carlo said. "I'll put one aside for you."

Jack thanked him and Carlo ran off to get some help distributing the well-found food. Jack turned for the comm tent and started putting together his report in his head. The camp burned around him, and the White Devil tried very hard not to look forward to the rest and relaxation he knew he would not get back at base. There would be no such reward for just another day's work.

But such is just the way it is.


End file.
